Chapter 2
Morgan clomped confidently across the 28th floor of the Pittsburgh skyscraper. Her corporate colleagues seemed to stop and stare as she strode through the plush, paneled, labyrinth hallways and offices, until reaching her own spacious but not-yet-corner office.
Her assistant, Darren Spencer, rose wordlessly, right on cue as she breezed by his desk. He swiped his iPad from his too-neat desk, turned on a heel and followed Morgan into her comfy confines. She proceeded directly to her leather captain’s chair and promptly plopped down into its arm-like embrace.
Darren dutifully closed the office’s heavy wooden door behind him. And just like that, Morgan was finally off stage.
She exhaled with a mix of relief, pleasure and exhaustion from behind the wooden expanse of her desk. She kicked off her heels, and flung her pedicured feet atop her desk, then leaned back in her leather chair.
After a moment to center herself, Morgan looked up sheepishly at Darren. Her crystal blue eyes peeked through tufts of sandy blonde bangs.
“So how do you think it went? Really?”
This was the unconfident college coed fishing for a compliment but secretly expecting the worst. It was as if Morgan always expected to be unmasked as a fraud. Deep down, she still didn’t believe that she belonged here.
Darren deposited his iPad on her desk, danced around its expanse, and expertly laid his strong, gifted hands on the knots in her shoulders.
“It went absolutely great,” he reassured, as he kneaded at the tensile-strength tension Morgan carried in her shoulders. “You know it did.”
Morgan’s eyes were closed in ecstasy. She grinned, then opened them, only to see the designer photographs of her two children staring back at her.
Samantha, 12, was a whip-smart, hard-charger with an underdog’s determination but a nihilist’s perfectionist bent -- just like her mother. Geoff, 10, was the complete opposite. He possessed a devil-may-care attitude, harbored no shortage of confidence and a strong sense of entitlement -- just like his daddy. He even looked like Brock. They shared the same sly, slanted smile, along with eyes that seemed to hide the constant calculations going on behind them.
Morgan allowed her eyes to fall closed again, surrendering to the pleasure being delivered by her personal assistant’s talented fingertips.
“Right there,” she commanded. “God, you’re good.”
“Only because you deserve it,” Darren insisted. “You deserve a lot of things.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Morgan moaned. “But I’ll take your shoulder rubs any day of the week.”
As if on cue, Darren dug in deeper, working the muscles, kneading out the tension. It had been building throughout the day, the week, the year. It had been a long, hard slog bringing Project Renaissance to fruition.
“So what did Linden want?” Darren probed ever so gently, his hands never missing a beat.
“You won’t believe this one,” Morgan purred, her voice deep and lost in Darren’s massage. “He’s insisting upon taking me out tonight. Drinks and dinner at Ruth’s Chris.”
“Hmm,” Darren hummed in non-response.
“You don’t like him,” Morgan said. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.
“I don’t trust him,” Darren corrected. “But that’s not the issue. The fact is, Linden likes you. He’s liked you for months now. But not as a colleague, or even his direct report. He’s targeting you because you happen to be the great Brock Ballentine’s ex-wife. Linden is one clumsy corporate-climber who won’t rest until he can bag those bragging rights.”
Morgan’s eyes popped open in shock. “Tell me what you really think, why don’t you!”
“I’m just saying -- be careful,” the chided underling offered demurely.
“I can take care of myself,” said Morgan, sliding up in her chair, finally emerging from her brief pleasure coma. “Problem is, I can’t seem to take care of my kids. Not while pursuing a career, that is. I have to make yet another call of shame.”
“Isn’t that why you employ a nanny?” Darren pointed out. “And spoil her with pay, I might add.”
“Ramona is worth every red cent, and then some,” Morgan answered, reaching for her smartphone. “Her doting, diligent care of my two children is the only thing that pries open the jaws of guilt just enough to allow me to function. I just wish I didn’t feel as if I were turning into their father. I pounded Brock into the ground for never being around and choosing the office over his wife and children. And now that I’m a corporate contender, damned if I’m not doing the exact same thing.”
“No. You’re not,” Darren insisted, swinging around the desk and locking eyes with his boss. “You’ll never be like him. Ever. You’re all heart. It’s what makes you good at your job. And it’s what will keep your bond strong with your kids.”
“I hope you’re right,” Morgan said, just before touching the phone’s illuminated screen to call home. “God, I hope you’re right.”
“Ballentine residence,” Samantha said with practiced pronunciation after a few rings.
“We’ll hello there, young Miss Ballentine. Aren’t you the little lady today.”
“Mom,” the girl giggled good-naturedly.
“Guilty as charged.” Morgan smiled into the phone.
“When are you coming home?” her daughter immediately inquired. It was always the first question. It was as if Samantha sensed the reason for her mother’s call.
“Oh, baby. I’m going to be late,” Morgan exhaled her confession.
“Again?” her daughter glumly asked.
“Yeah, Honey. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Samantha said, sounding so defeated, as if she’d heard it all before, hundreds of times.
“What’s Geoff doing?” Morgan asked as brightly as she could, desperately trying to change the subject – and the mood.
“What do you think?”
“Playing video games.”
“Yep.”
Morgan knew her son was an addict for anything with action and on-screen graphics. In fact, it was this infuriating fixation that actually inspired Project Renaissance. Morgan had come to her epiphany after years of browbeating Geoff to put down the joystick and pick up the books. She remembered thinking: If only he spent as much time on his schoolwork as he did those damn video games.
But it was the reverse of the question that was Morgan’s moment of true inspiration: If only his schoolwork were as engaging as those damned video games!
A mother’s idle, wishful thinking soon germinated into an idea, a concept, a paradigm shift.
Now that was something she could run with, Morgan thought to herself, even as Geoff remained hypnotized by the sound and fury of some combat game or other. “That’s something that could start a revolution.”
The rest, as they say, is history.
Now the same interactive video technology that had made such a willing prisoner of her son was separating Morgan from her children. She told herself this was different. This was for the greater good, to improve education, to salvage the next generation, to make America great again.
But was it really that different?
“Should I get him?” Samantha asked.
“What?” Morgan sounded bewildered. Lost in all of her doubts.
“Do you want me to get Geoff, so you can talk to him?” Samantha’s temper seeped into her voice now. Her mom wasn’t even paying attention to her on the phone.
“Uh, no. That’s okay, Honey.” Morgan snapped back. She knew if Samantha put her son on, Morgan would just get his brain-vacuumed, zombie voice. A string of yeses and no’s that far too often passed for conversation between a workaholic mother and her game-obsessed son.
“Just say ‘hi’ for me and make sure he listens to Ramona, okay?”
“Sure. Like that will ever happen,” Samantha deadpanned.
“It’s not that bad,” Morgan added, not even convincing herself of this. “Put Ramona on. I’ll have her take you guys somewhere cool
tonight. Where do you want to go?”
“P.F. Chang’s,” Samantha answered without hesitation.
And for that fleeting moment, she sounded like herself. Her daughter sounded exactly like a normal, happy-go-lucky 12-year-old. Unfortunately, the moment came courtesy of a well-paid nanny and a junk-food chain restaurant – not on account of Morgan. Still, she would take it.
“P.F. Chang’s it is,” Morgan agreed.